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About FRANK COLSON

THE NIGHT OF THE FIRING
'Twas the night of the firing, and all through the shop,
The kiln stood a-waiting, shelves filled to the top
Pots had been glazed with a bright Copper Blue,
Others with Celadon, 'Sang de Boeuf' too.
Suddenly out on the road there appears
A large propane truck with a big bunch of gears.
The driver jumps out and hooks up my tank,
The air fills with propane, which smelled kinda rank.
Stars glitter brightly on this windless night,
I candle the burners and tweak them just right.
Visions of glazes dance in my head,
Blue-greens and mustards, chocolate and red.
I sleep a few hours, then turn up the flame.
I sleep a bit more, than repeat the same.
The kiln now is glowing the color of fire,
I doze for a while, then turn it up higher.
I'm way too excited to go back to sleep.
I pace 'round the room, and I look in the peep.
The hands of the clock move ever so slow,
When finally - oh, FINALLY - Cone Five bends down low.
Praise be to Kiln Gods: praise them on high!
I see a meteor crossing the sky.
I crank up the heat; flames dance in the flue.
Would this fire be perfect, too good to be true?
My dragon was spitting ribbons of flame.
I opened the damper, those ribbons to tame.
Reduction was happ'ning, reds were assured,
More beautiful even than I had conjured!
I open the studio, stared at the sky,
And witnessed the Southern Cross rising on high.
The night was now fading away to the sun,
Cone Ten bending over, my firing was done.
Inside that kiln would be treasures galore...
This was one Christmas worth waiting for!
Frank Colson